Something Like Hope (6 page)

I’m not kidding. Many of us girls in here have been abused in foster care. For the foster fathers and foster brothers and foster uncles, it’s like they’ve just won the lottery and got their very own thirteen-year-old sex toy. It happens two or three times and then you see the writing on the walls: “Oh, this is how it’s gonna be.” You run away. Then you get picked up for hooking or boosting stuff, because if you’re fourteen and homeless, there are only two ways to get by: sell your ass or sell drugs.

I am still in DSS custody, and so is my daughter. Maybe my mom was in social services, too, but I’m not
sure. She never talked about her childhood except to say that it sucked.

I gave birth to Jasmine while I was locked up. Because I still had time to serve, Jasmine got placed in a foster home. I have to say it’s a good home, and the single black woman, Connie, loves Jasmine and treats her well. I’m glad for this, but it kills me too, because I know in my mind and in my heart that this woman is a better mother than I could ever be.

I handle this poison truth by being mean to the DSS worker. I treat Susan like she’s responsible for my daughter being where she is. I know it’s stupid and wrong, but I can’t help it. And I’m just frigid enough with Connie. But I can’t show too much attitude, because she’ll tell Susan. Then Susan will, in turn, tell the family court judge that I’m uncooperative. That’s how you lose your rights as a parent. Imagine, losing your parental rights! Sometimes, though, I wish a judge could’ve terminated
my
parents’ rights. Maybe if it had been done when I was little and cute, I could have been adopted by a real family.

Anyway, Connie calls every week to tell me how Jasmine is doing. “Jasmine sang her first song yesterday.” “Jasmine ate a whole hot dog by herself.” “Jasmine learned how to ride a tricycle.” After this torture I get to say hi to my baby. She says, “Hi, Mommy!” in the sweetest voice, but I know that Connie is behind her whispering what to say. She probably has a picture of me handy to prep Jasmine before the calls. She might say, “Look, sweetie, this is your mommy! Remember your mommy?”

These phone calls take place on Thursdays. That’s the day that I don’t eat. I don’t do it to lose weight or punish myself. My reason is far more practical. I fast because the calls make me so nervous that I throw up whatever’s in my stomach. Then, later, I usually get into a fight or a takedown. It’s just better not to eat.

So this social worker, Susan, is only a few years older than I am. She just graduated from college and has that fresh, bright-eyed look that makes me want to scream. She tries to “relate” to me. Not that that’s such a ridiculous thing to try … it’s just that we’re sooo different and she pretends it doesn’t matter. I remind her constantly that it does. Either she doesn’t get it (what did they teach her in that college, anyway?) or she pretends that she doesn’t care. Hell, she shops at the Gap and drives a lime-green VW Bug! Everything about her is so damn cheerful and cute, even the way she talks about how Jasmine and I can be together when I get out.

Time to grow the fuck up, Susan. There is no getting out for kids like me. I will
not
get to be with my daughter. That possibility disappeared long ago. Two years ago, to be exact, on June 8. When I gave birth to Jasmine in the county hospital, I was almost sixteen, and I got to nurse her and hold her and soothe her to sleep for two days. I sang her songs and kissed her a thousand times on the head and cheeks. I changed her diaper even when it was dry. I tried to memorize her smell, that beautiful warm new-baby smell. I tried to memorize all the details: the softness of her skin, the downy hair on the nape of her
neck, the shape of her nose and her chin. The gorgeous nut-brown color of her skin. I wanted to take her to every room in the hospital and hold her up to each patient and say, “This is my daughter. I am her mother and she is my daughter. Promise me that you’ll remember this. Promise!” I wanted to make them say it—to hear the words and make it real.

And when it was time, the nurses wrapped my baby up and let me say goodbye. My breasts were swollen and ached for their one real purpose. Unknowingly, I cupped them with my hands and let loose the most God-awful scream you have ever heard. Ms. Williams had started to put the cuffs and shackles on me, but she wasn’t able to finish. She started crying too, and then pulled me toward her. We both fell to the floor and cried like that for a long time. I don’t know what she was crying for. Maybe it was for all the black and brown babies who grow up without parents. Maybe she just felt sorry for me. I don’t know. Eventually, an orderly pried me off Ms. Williams and laid me down on a gurney and wheeled me to the psych ward. I stayed there for five weeks.

       
I
t’s Samantha’s sixteenth birthday today. She’s excited because it means she gets to go home soon. She keeps telling everyone they can have a piece of her cake.

Tyreena says, “Damn, girl, you mad stupid. Don’t you know that everybody get a piece a cake on a birthday?”

Kiki, the kinder of the two, snaps at Tyreena. “Why you gotta be so mean? She happy it’s her birthday and you be beastin’ on her. Say you sorry.”

“Shit. I ain’t sayin’ I’m sorry when I’m not really sorry, ’cause that’s mad two-faced. Kiki, you
know
I don’t lie.”

“That’s different from a lie, and you know it. Say you sorry, Tyreena!” Kiki puts her hands on her hips to show she’s mad.

“How you gonna stick up for her? Ain’t no one stick up for me when I was a little girl and there wasn’t no cake! And my mom’s boyfriend come out callin’ me bitches and hoes!”

Kiki throws her hands up in the air and walks away. “Um, excuse me. Did anybody say they wanted to therapize you right now, Tyreena? This ain’t about you, so be quiet.”

“You want me to be quiet, or apologize? How can I apologize if I’m quiet? That don’t make sense.”

The argument goes on. But in the end, nobody gets to eat Samantha’s birthday cake. After dinner, Ms. Choi announces to all of us, “You ain’t gettin’ no cake after that bullcrap you pulled the other day. We don’t reward negative behavior. It don’t matter what day it is. If you actin’ the fool, there ain’t gonna be no cake.”

Ms. Choi boosts up the volume of her voice to drown out the sighs and grumbling. A chubby girl with her hair in puffs says something about how it’s in the resident handbook that every girl gets a cake on her birthday.

“Now, girls, we all know what the rules says about birthday cakes. They say Samantha has to get a cake for her birthday, but it don’t say
when
she has to get it. So what we’re gonna do is put it in the fridge for now. And tomorrow, if Samantha chooses to act her age and stop with the negativity,
then
we’ll eat the cake.”

Samantha goes absolutely berserk. She knows that Ms. Choi and the others will eat her cake after their shift is over. It doesn’t matter how good she is. It’s not about her behavior anymore, or the cake. It’s about humiliation. And Samantha knows all about this.

“Motherfucker! I’ll kill you, you fucking pig.
¡Puta!
”

In a blind panic, Samantha charges across the cafeteria at Ms. Choi. She makes it about three steps before the giant, Kowalski, grabs her and, in a smooth powerful wrestling-type move, throws her down. Samantha struggles but only manages to reopen her stitches. It’s a bloody mess, and we get sent to bed early while Samantha goes to the hospital to get stitched up by a real doctor.

These are the worst kinds of punishments, because they’re senseless. Getting slammed for calling someone a fat bitch at least makes a certain amount of sense. But losing your birthday cake because the night staff are going to eat it because you got slammed for calling someone a fat bitch … that makes no sense.

And on top of that, there’s nothing any of us can do for Samantha. Her will is being broken, and it makes me sad to watch it happen. And how quickly sad becomes angry.

       
M
r. Delpopolo sits down at my table at lunch today. This is weird because nobody ever eats lunch with us except the guards.

“Hello, girls,” he says, as though it’s completely natural and normal for him to be here. His ass is so big it hardly fits on the small round stool that’s bolted to the table. The girls laugh.

Mr. D. senses the joke and says, “Yeah, I know. I’ll have to have this thing surgically removed at the end of the meal.” Everyone laughs, but this time they do it along with Mr. D. It’s a neat trick he pulled, and I’ll have to remember it.

“What’s that?” Tyreena demands as she practically pokes her nose into his food. Delpopolo doesn’t seem to mind the rudeness.

“It’s gumbo.”

“What? I ain’t never heard of gumbo. What’s in it?”

“Do you really want to know? I’ll tell you, but you might find it boring.”

“I axed, didn’t I? If I didn’t want to know I wouldn’t have axed.”

Delpopolo talks all about the ingredients: okra, sausage, shrimp, tomatoes, etc. Then he tells us about the secret ingredient, filé powder, which comes from ground sassafras. “If it’s made with browned flour instead of filé,” he says, “then it’s not
real
gumbo.”

“Can I try some?” Cinda asks. Delpopolo promises to bring enough in for everyone the following week. Then he asks, “What do all of you like to eat?”

We go around the table. Kiki says, “My moms makes macaroni and cheese—the real kind where it’s baked and the edges are all crispy and browned.” We all ooh and aah because baked macaroni is the best. Tyreena says she cooks soul food with her grandma: fried chicken and black-eyed peas and greens and sweet potato pie for dessert. Cinda tells us about the time her school band went to Red Lobster and she ate cheese biscuits and lobster soup.

Tyreena is outraged. “You go to Red Lobster and order soup and biscuits? Girl, you is whack!” Cinda makes a face at Tyreena and tells her
she’s
whack. We all talk and laugh and bicker. It is really kind of nice and fun. Like a normal conversation.

       
C
ourt hearing today. It’s called an EOP, short for Extension of Placement. The Center can extend your stay for intervals of six or twelve months until you turn eighteen. Some girls stay after eighteen if they’ve done really serious crimes, like manslaughter, weapons offenses, fire setting, sex abuse.

The hearing is routine and will go quickly. Probably last about five minutes once we get in there. My law guardian is a total asshole. He looks like he slept in his clothes and he may be drunk. He has foul breath, and I have to turn my head when he talks to me.

“Sign the waiver, it’s best for you,” he says.

“No thank you, mister.”

“Look, the judge is going to extend your placement anyway. Why not save us all some time?”

“I’m in no hurry, sir.”

He starts to get frustrated and mutters under his
breath. Something like “For Christ’s sake, you fucking kids are all alike.”

Most girls sign the waiver, but it’s really a stupid move. You gain nothing by it. And if you refuse to sign, there’s always the chance that, during a hearing, the judge will get pissed at the Center and cut you loose. It happens sometimes because the Center doesn’t present well in court. Case managers show up without their paperwork and can’t remember even the most basic facts about us girls.